


blood is thicker than concrete

by adeleblaircassiedanser



Series: WIP Amnesty 2015 [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Gen, Jossed, Postpartum Depression, but not in a shippy way, or something like it, postep s04e11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adeleblaircassiedanser/pseuds/adeleblaircassiedanser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The half back-flip conception, a state hospital birth<br/>The most threadbare tall story the country's ever heard<br/>Brought home to breathe smoke in arms of her mother with a blunt kitchen knife<br/>Who just lays in a submissive position<br/>beneath the national weight and the slow arc of a fist</p>
<p>Her heart beats like a breeze block thrown down the stairs<br/>Her blood is thicker than concrete- forced to be brave,<br/>she was born into a grave."<br/>-"state hospital", frightened rabbit</p>
<p>It's cold. Babies are hard work. Svetlana learns to accept help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood is thicker than concrete

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream back in April (not a sleeping dream, a MLK dream) about Kev and Svetlana bonding over child rearing. Then the show gave it to me, so I figured it was time to set this WIP free. I like the way the show handled it better anyway. I think at the time I was so tired of fandom hate I just wanted to see someone being nice to Svetlana, haha.

The way Svetlana sees it, this is a turning point in her life. She’s twenty four, almost twenty five, and it’s time to take some control over her life. There’s Yevgeny to think about now, after all, and to be honest she’s probably already peaked as far as this whoring business goes. She can see that she’s gained at least eight or nine pounds already since the pregnancy, and her pussy will probably never get back to normal. She should really be saving and trying to make plans for the future, as this shithole of a house is clearly not going to be a long-term solution for her and her son. Who knows what the crazy old drunk will come back out of prison.  Knowing the way things go, he’ll probably want to beat the shit out of her for her failure to lure his son away from the temptation of ass fucking.  If not him, the sister’s giant black boyfriend seems to have gotten out of control lately, and she doubts her piece of shit husband will be as quick to jump to her aid as he was for Mandy.

                One thing is for sure. She has decided that she has been raped for the last time. She will murder someone and be deported back to Russia, where she will be just as friendless and homeless, and even colder than she is now, before she will be raped for a fourth time. So really, she ought to be making some sort of plan.

                But it is hard to make a plan with some disgusting, slobbering American leaning over your body and groaning “Yeah, baby, you like that.” And it is even harder when you get home to find that the Polish girl, Sasha, is resigning from her babysitting duties because the baby is

“Sick, or something, _nie wiem,_ ” and she fucking hates the sound of Polish, and she hates this dumb whore girl, and why is he sick? Why won’t he stop crying? It’s already ten forty-five, she ran all the way home through the March snow as soon as she could, but none of the clinics will be open at this time.

“Shhh, shhh,” she whispers at him, but he’s still crying, his little face so red, and is he hot? He seems warm to the touch but of course there’s no thermometer in this house. If he’s really sick? Even if she could afford to take time off to go to the free clinic, any medicine would still cost money. The five hundred dollars she got the week he was born are nearly gone; fifty dollars a day to Sasha to watch him, thirty-five dollars for a piece of shit bassinet from the Goodwill, twenty-five for the formula, since breast feeding is out of the question in her line of work, fifteen for new baby bottles because she will be damned if Yevgeny is going to catch some dirty Chicago disease off of old bottles, the diapers almost ten dollars a pack at the damn corner store (she could get them cheaper at a Wal-Mart, but that's an hour long bus ride, which is two dollars, an hour less of wages and an hour more to the Pole), and he is little still. What will happen when he starts eating solid food? When the shitty little wicker basket gets too small? When the son or the father decide to kick them out of the house?

The cries seem to be getting louder and louder, and now Svetlana worries that the black one will wake up and come after her. She knows his type too well.

“Shh, _malyutka,_ ” she whispers, desperately, trying to remember a lullaby. If she concentrates, turns her head the right way, she can remember her mother. Her brothers and sisters all had different mothers, but hers had been the prettiest, and she knew that there had been a song, a beautiful one, but it’s just out of reach. It’s been more than ten years, and she curses the fact that she remembers so much more about her father, his hands and his harsh voice and the smile the day he’d gotten the three hundred dollars, US! That was fifty more than her older sister Sonia had been worth. She remembers feeling proud then. The feeling of betrayal didn’t come till later, when she was less young and stupid. Her mother had been long gone by then, anyway, and there’s no use in all this remembering, she still doesn’t know any stupid lullabies, and the boy is still crying.

She’s a shit mother, and she had known she would be a shit mother, but she hadn't had the five hundred dollars for an abortion, and she had been afraid of how the father would react if she’d had one, anyway, and most of all there is a selfish part of her, much bigger than she likes to admit, that had thought maybe this baby could be a ticket out of the general whore pool- maybe she could become the favorite, sleep in a bed of her own, maybe one day become some twisted kind of housewife instead of working for every dirty ten dollar bill held together by scotch tape that was tossed at her feet.

She had been selfish, and stupid, and now she is scared, and Yevgeny is crying and crying, like he knows what she is thinking, like he is wishing he had a mother who knew some lullabies and could feed him real milk and not this powder shit.

She feels the feeling that had once meant tears were coming, though they rarely do anymore. Men already think you are weak enough without you having to prove it for them. Anyway, crying makes it hard to see, and sometimes the man will stop fucking you and refuse to pay and that's fifteen minutes wasted.  So instead of crying, she lays out a dishrag on the bed and tries changing Yevgeny’s diaper. It's barely even wet, though, so that's a dollar and five cents wasted because he is still crying.

It is 12:30 am now, which means she has two hours or so before she should go back to the Alibi to catch the last call crowd. Usually she can get one or two customers in before Kev kicks them out at 3:30, run home to catch Yevgeny waking up, feed him, take a quick nap, and be back by 7:30 to catch guys on their way to their jobs or the unemployment office. Usually there's another lull between 9:30 and 11:30, then the lunch rush, then the bums who are just waking up with last night’s hangover, then the after work crowd, happy hour, and then it stays pretty steady from there. Before the baby had come she had worked straight through, 7:30 to 3:30, until she got too fat to be popular anymore. The key is repeat business. If you are always there and smiling when a john shows up, he will probably feel guilty about picking a different girl this time.

Lately, though, she’s been sneaking out early, trading the lucrative prime time hours for time with her son, who she really hadn't expected to love as much as she does. She hadn't expected to think about him even when she isn't with him, but she does. And usually it's not with thoughts of guilt. He can't even smile properly yet, but he is her best friend and the only person who usually seems happy to see her. Except today. What is she supposed to do, bring him to the Alibi? She doesn't have a carrier and it is cold as shit outside, but she can’t leave him here crying. Maybe if he was asleep, and if Sasha was still willing to change his diaper or feed him, if it came to that, in the few hours she was gone. But not today.

Svetlana walks to the hall closet, which contains a myriad of random, useless shit: a shotgun, some work boots with the soles torn off, the controllers to a game system even older than the original PlayStation that’s plugged in now- oh but there, in the back of the closet, is what she’s looking for- a winter coat. It’s child-sized, and the filling is spilling out of one of the puffs where it’s ripped, but it’ll do.

She goes back to the room, pulls out all three of the onesies from the pack that had been her collective gift from the girls, and pulls them on to his body one after the other. This does not diminish the force of his displeasure at all, and he goes on screaming, though she doesn't see any tears coming down anymore.

_Don’t you get tired,_ malyutka _?_

Then she goes and gets her bath towel, and wraps that around him, and then she zips him inside the child’s coat. She puts her coat and boots on, and then considers trying to zip him inside her coat- but it’s too tight, and she’s not sure he’d be able to breathe. He looks like a ghetto baby Jesus as it is. She settles for tying him to her front in the scarf she’d worn to the christening.

 “Shh, it is okay, _malyutka_. Shh,” she says, in a voice that she hopes is soothing, but may just sound sedated. It has been a long time since she slept.  She had been counting on Terry for at least a bit of money, even if she had to fuck her father-in-law to get it, but he’d gone straight back into prison. So there’s no time to think. No use complaining.

  _I am here only,_ she thinks. _Not in princess land of “maybe” and “help”. Here only, with my son._

Time for work. She hadn't thought he could cry any louder, but the first step out onto the front stoop proves her wrong. “Shh, my love, it will be over soon.”

\--

The walk seems no shorter or longer than usual. On the way, she thinks about what she will do when she arrives. Where will she put the baby? How long can she afford to linger downstairs, where it’s heated, to make sure Yevgeny doesn't lose fingers or toes to this cold? Why hadn't she thought to bring a bottle with her, or at least an extra diaper? _Fuck, fuck, fuck. You are stupid whore_.

And then she’s laughing at herself a bit, for still thinking of that as an insult and not simply a job title. She can see the Alibi now, only two blocks away, so she watches the sidewalk carefully for the places where there is sometimes ice. It would be just like her to slip and kill her child on a sidewalk in the middle of the night.

But no, she arrives, and opens the door. Yevgeny had been starting to quiet down a bit, but the little bell on the door wakes him. She leans against the door jamb for a second. She just needs to gather herself, that’s all. Just a moment.

Kev looks up from the bar and smiles, his wide, open smile. His beard is stupid, and his hair even worse, but despite herself she’s grown fond of him. She usually dislikes men, but there’s something different about him.

“How are you two doing this fine evening?” And there are a few guys sitting at the bar, regulars mostly, but Kev lifts the door and walks over.

“Can I hold him?” She nods wordlessly and lifts him out of the sling. Her cheeks sting a bit as he takes in the rags she’s carried her son out in. Funny, she hadn't thought there was any shame left in her. This week has been full of surprises.

“Hey, little man,” Kev is whispering. “What’s wrong? I know the last time you were here was a little stressful, but it’s all zen today, man.  It’s all good, dude.”

“It is not you,” Svetlana tries to explain. “He cries all day, all night. I change diaper, feed him, nothing.  Babysitter quits, he cries.”

Kev has that look on his face, the pitying look, and she hates it, and she’s ashamed and tired, and now for the first time in at least three years her eyes decide to shed proper tears.

Once she’s started she can’t stop, and now she’s making a scene and the men at the bar are looking over, and no one wants to fuck a crying girl, so now the whole bother has been for nothing.  

“Is he sick?” Kev asks, and all she can do is shrug and gasp for breath. This is really pathetic. After a couple of moments, she tries:

“We have no- house has no- temperature?” and she tries to gesture it.

“Baby thermometer?”

“Yes, this. He is seeming warm to me, but what do I know?” Kev looks at her for a second, then at Yevgeny.

“You know what?” and then he turns around and says in that loud, carrying voice- “Last call is early tonight, guys! Clear out!”

A couple groans rise from the patrons. “I’m serious, people. Move out!  Baby emergency.”

“What are you doing,” Svetlana says urgently.

“Well, my place has a baby thermometer. My wife is a nurse, we just had twins, and her mother knows from babies. So I’m taking you and this little guy home with me.”

“It is middle of night. I am strange Russian whore. Your wife not cares you bringing me home?”

_Middle of_ the _night, you moron_ she thinks as soon as she’s said it. It’s always like this- as soon as she’s upset, or talking about something that matters, her English abandons her. Dirty talk? Sure. But nothing important, for those her brain wants her to sound like she’s still in her the first week off the boat; thirteen, innocent, and stupid.

“I mean, the last time I brought something strange home, it was a gun and I almost shot up my own house. We’re in an adjustment period, you know?”

He hands Yevgeny back to her, and she lifts him back into the sling. He’s still crying, though he sounds tired and weak now, and her heart clenches with worry. It would be worse if he stopped crying, no? If he were truly sick?

There’s no way she can refuse an offer of help for her Yevgeny, not even to protect her wounded pride, and now there are no customers left anyway. Kev lifts his giant’s coat, shearling around the collar, off of the coat hook, and goes to put it on her.

“No, no,” she says, “You will be cold.”

“I’ll survive,” Kev says. “Look, I’ll take my gloves, okay? Come on, we’ll have this settled in no time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Where this was going before I abandoned it: Veronica is suspicious, but warms up when she sees the baby. They call Veronica’s mom- it’s probably just colic, totally normal, it will pass on its own. Kev and V share some baby stuff. They have both cribs and bassinets, so while the girls are in their real beds Veronica lends a bassinet to Svetlana and lets her crash on the couch for a few hours, against Svetlana’s protests. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


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